


Anomie

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, implied rape, slight look into sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is interrogated for a crime he swears he didn't commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anomie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I tried to imagine what the Lord of the Flies characters would be like, having been raised in modern-day England. So, it's not completely canon. I acknowledge that. I was trying to play with the characters a little.

The lights seem to flicker momentarily, as if absorbing tension from the room and attempting to display it further. The detective sits across from me, his calloused fingers tickling the tiny nametag on his breast pocket. Leaning forwards, he covers his mouth with a hand meant to support his chin, and sighs. 

“I’m sure you already know your rights,” he mumbles impatiently, “so why don’t you just tell us — me — what happened.” 

I take a deep breath. I knew it would have to come out eventually. Trying to buy myself some more time, I stare at the wall behind the detective for a few minutes before opening my mouth. 

“With all due respect, sir, I want to let you know —” 

“Just...cut to the chase, kid. We don’t got all day. _I_ don’t got all day.” 

I swallow. This is it. No more distractions, no more running away…the truth is going to be heard. So I decide to make it as interesting as possible — no details spared. 

“It started with a bottle of vodka that Timothy had stolen from my parents’ cupboard. Of course, _I_ don’t drink, but he was known to hit the bottle every now and then. My mum was out of town, and my dad — well, you know. After a while, one bottle of vodka became two, although I’m not sure how, and Tim and Roger were completely trashed. I was surprised that Ralph hadn’t any. I guess I shouldn’t have been, but most of the blokes with whom he was acquainted were definitely the party type. Now, I tell you, _I'm_ not, and I never was. I’ve never had alcohol in my life, and I never went to any of those promiscuous parties with which he concerned himself. He’s an idiot, that Ralph. A good-for-nothing waste of space. Or, at least, he was…” 

I shrug and take a sip of the glass of water the detective had provided me with earlier. 

“So a few hours go by and Ralph’s sitting there, fuming. Like bloody fire’s coming out of his nostrils. To be fair, I was pretty brassed, too. Ever since what happened to my father, I’ve been a bit uncomfortable around alcohol. Nasty stuff, really. Mum says only sinners drink lager. I’m not a sinner. Let me remind you that _I_ didn’t do anything wrong. Now, Ralph has a tendency to run his mouth because he thinks he’s better than everyone else, the prat. All everyone at school talks about is, ‘Oh, Ralph is’ this and ‘Ralph is’ that, and yeah, I guess he is. But that doesn’t give him the right to...” 

“Don’t get sidetracked. You’re being interrogated, not interviewed.” 

I mutter something venomous under my breath, but the detective doesn’t seem to notice, so I continue with nothing more than a sophomoric eye roll. 

“As I was saying,” I start again through clenched teeth. “The alcohol. The vodka, I mean. Actually...well. After a while more, Roger is sitting Indian-style, watching the wall as if it’s going to bite him or something. He keeps looking at it, tilting his head, licking his lips. He gets like that when he’s drunk. And Tim gets a phone call from his dad, yelling and screaming, threatening to take away his car if he doesn’t come home right away. Now, being the cautious and _shrewd_ friend that I am, _I_ offer to drive him home. I’m also the best driver of the group, so it was obvious there was no better solution. I grab Tim’s keys, because he’s too far gone to stop me, and that’s when Ralph decides to bring up the time I ran over the neighbour’s cat.” 

“Did you run it over on purpose?” 

“No, and it’s not as if I could have stopped, anyway. The bloody thing ran right in front of my car! You know, I’ve never been in an accident that was _my_ fault. I’m appalled by some of the people allowed to drive.” 

“Mr. Merridew, the time,” the detective reminds, tapping at his outdated watch. I crack a smug grin, because I’ve always been rather righteous about being addressed by my surname. 

“Of course. So, we both end up driving him home. Me there, Ralph back. We don’t say a word to each other during the car ride. He probably felt awkward, since it’s blatant he’s so _painfully_ attracted to me. Honestly, Ralph is not a very convincing straight man. I’d say the worst sin by far is homosexuality. It’s completely unnatural. I don’t understand how people can go about ruining the sanctity of marriage with their —” 

“Time! Please.” 

I scoff and roll my eyes again, this time leaning back in my chair a bit. 

“When we get back, Roger’s gone batty about something. He’s rummaging through the cabinets, mumbling something about a rabbit and an Irish man. Ralph seems scared — he doesn’t get Roger at all. He sits on the couch, checking his phone and trying to act calm, but he’s really a terrible actor. An hour later, I’m next to him on the couch — a safe distance away, of course — when Roger comes in with a vacant expression. Ralph gets up, says he hasn’t had a bathe in a while, which, for him, is more like a day, and walks over to the bathroom. At this point, I’m pretty fed up. I’ve been thinking about Ralph all day, the posh bastard: how all the girls fancy him and he doesn’t even mind them, how his family’s rich, you know, what with his father as a general and his mum as a designer of some sort. He never works for anything. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a melon for a head, because he’s getting a sports scholarship, anyway. Can you believe it? One of the best schools in the country offered him a full ride. For what? For kicking a ball around?” 

“This is the last time I’ll ask you before I get mad. And if you never seen a cop mad, I’d say you mind yourself.” 

“I’m not afraid of you. Like I said... _I didn't do anything wrong_.” 

“Whatever, kid. This is some serious stuff, here. I’m just trying to write my report and make sure we got the right guy.” 

“I am the right guy. I was there the whole time. But, _I'm_ not responsible. Ralph is.” 

The detective quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything other than, “Finish the story”. 

“So when he gets out of the shower, it’s pretty obvious he’s trying to get my attention. The towel’s kind of falling off his waist, his hair all wet and unkempt. He’s got a twinkle in his eyes as if he knows I’m staring. Now, I tell you, there’s a difference between staring and _ogling_ , which I was _not_ doing. He’s standing there in the doorway with a shit-eating grin and his hand on his left hip, sort of chuckling under his breath. I mean, no wonder Roger did what he did! The wanker just keeps standing there, thinking I’m looking for a shag or something, but I’m just angry! He’s still laughing. Makes me want to kick him right in the pills and watch him fall to the ground. He’d be quiet then. But I don’t. I just look away, and by this point, Roger’s twiddling his thumbs like a quiet idiot, as if he always needs me to tell him what to do. 

“Then he says something, and it really makes you jump when he speaks, because you’re not expecting it. It’s as if he isn’t even there half the time. He says, ‘Let’s play a game’, and that’s probably more words than he’s said the whole week. He never suggests anything, either, so being an extraordinary friend, I make one up off the top of my head. It was really _quite_ clever, because we were all bored and I was pretty worked up. Not because of Ralph, though. Probably, or actually, definitely, because I hadn’t had a shag in months. Or, at least, a good one. So I lean over, whisper the game to Roger, pretending that I need his approval when I really couldn’t care less. He nods his head and I tell Ralph to lie on the ground. He gives me a weird look and asks if he can change first, which is bollocks. Ralph would walk around, do anything and everything naked if he could. Guess it comes from swimming, which he used to do a lot of. He was really good — I’ll give him that. Said his Dad started training him when he was two.” 

The detective sighs and leans back a little more. I raise my chin with learned eloquence and carry on with my story. 

“He ends up doing it anyway, the towel still wrapped around him so he can feign modesty. I tell him to close his eyes and roll onto his stomach after a few seconds of careful deliberation. He sits up, complaining that it sounds sick and that he doesn’t have to do anything we tell him to. I make up some bull about playing it at a party a few years back and how fun it was, but the arrogant prick just crosses his arms and refuses. Well, Roger and I decided to pin him down ourselves. I’m sure he liked it, anyway. The teachers at school think he’s golden, but he’s really just an idiot and a sick pervert. We were just having a bit of fun, honestly. I just wanted him to feel what I’ve felt for the past five years: the feeling of being weak and not being able to do anything — the feeling of someone overpowering you and making you feel like nothing. He’s always the leader of all our groups, the one who gets all the attention. I’m sure he’d never had a bad day in his life. You know, I had to work to be the head of the choir. I practiced every day for hours, making sure I knew my part perfectly so I could instruct the others. All Ralph had to do was ask for something and he got it.” 

Intrigued, the detective brushes his wrists against the edge of the table and sits up a bit, leaning towards me now as opposed to his prior, uninterested loafing. 

“Continue,” he urges, but I fall silent. The room seems colder, the walls condensing and strangling memories I’d long forgotten out of my head. 

“Sure, Ralph was a complete airhead. He was irritating at the worst of times, and only vaguely tolerable at the best. But he always wore a smile and helped people when they dropped their books on the ground, you know, because…well, he did it to get attention, I’m sure. He could never get enough of it.”

The overbearing presence of a once cheery schoolboy who could drown his peers in a vat of his own, ever-oozing pulchritude seems to cling onto my shoulders, causing them to droop down with insecurity I never allow myself to show. 

“Mr. Merridew?” the detective asks, his voice drifting past my unfocussed eyes, completely unnoticed. I twist my lips nervously, remembering things that only a boy would waste his time musing upon -- Ralph, arriving at school with a cap on and a self-conscious slouch, shrieking when I took it off and made all the other boys laugh at his poorly-hidden, ridiculous haircut; who skinned his knee in primary school and sobbed loudly in the rain, but never cried for years after that; who clutched at my uniform jacket in a dark closet and breathed heavily against my cheek as we hid from impending consequence; who was always first to take up a challenge and last to be thought of as pusillanimous, but cowered in fear at the tiniest of slithering reptiles; whose face would flush when our hands slid past each other, only when we handed each other textbooks or pencils; who is mistaken for a stone but withers away in the waters of threatened loss; who is the only person who makes me feel as if happiness is not a fleeting jolt of electricity, but rather the steady current of an exciting life. Ralph, the only constant thing in my life. 

I tongue the inside of my cheek, biting the fleshy parts of my bottom lip. My throat closes in on itself, folding like a tube of toothpaste and squeezing spontaneous tears into my eyes. The clear, salty water falls down my visage without my permission, creating an unwanted display of carefully-coveted guilt. 

“...He wasn’t crying. Ralph never cries. He told us, ‘No’, though. He writhed and squirmed, trying to reason with us. His voice was cracking, but he told us that we were good friends, and that he knew we wouldn’t do it to him. But we did. Because in that moment, I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t fathom that there was enough consciousness to be distributed to anyone but me. There was no way someone could be in their own reality, seeing things in their own way...another whirring cluster of feelings and working body parts that orchestrates a life other than my own. And even if I did, I didn’t care. I ignored his pleas and watched Roger as my encouragements drove him to do what he did. And... _he_ did it. _I_ didn’t do it. I was just holding him down and watching everything play out. I wasn’t the one who took the lamp off the desk and smashed it on his skull. I was sitting still and tuning the situation out as his eyes fell shut and he didn’t move anymore, not able to fight back when Roger dug the knife out of his pocket and slit his throat. It was almost like dreaming. Ralph couldn’t actually be dead. They were playing a dirty trick. Roger didn’t carry around a knife, and even if he did, he didn’t use it. Not on Ralph.” 

I shiver, feeling goosebumps trickle down my legs and the back of my neck. The detective wears a cold frown and offers no reaction. He’s waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do. 

“When he didn’t wake up, I knew he was dead. Roger dragged him into the backyard and I helped him dig a hole, burying him in it before the sun came up again. We didn’t say anything to each other, just nodded as if we were sharing the same burden and parted ways.” 

“Uh-huh. And you say you weren’t responsible, because you weren’t the one who carried out the attack?” 

I choke a little, rubbing my hand against the top of my knee and trying my best to push away all emotion. 

“That’s right. I’m chapter chorister and head boy. I’ve never done anything wrong, and I never plan to.”


End file.
